Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (22 page)

“Did you say that the claim is through Prince David’s mother?” Clare said. “What proof could he possibly have when we have none?”

Bohun smirked, enjoying everyone’s confusion. “According to the Archbishop, Prince David’s mother is the secret daughter of King Edward’s father, Henry. I understand that the Archbishop has been provided with documents that contain King Henry’s seal and signature testifying to that fact.”

Bohun was
serious
.

“I feel like laughing and chucking a chair across the room at the same time,” Dafydd said. “Provided by whom?” He turned to me. “Are you hearing this, Lili?”

I rose from my chair and slipped my arm around his waist. “I hear it.”

“Could it be true?” Clare had stepped closer to Dafydd, too.

“Of course not—” Dafydd stopped. I could tell that he was bursting to tell them that his mother had been born in the Land of Madoc. I held on tighter, trying to tell him not to, to speak to him without speaking. My husband was honest almost to a fault. He had a conscience and a strong sense of duty. It kept him up at night.

To my relief, Dafydd didn’t continue. Instead, he let out a long breath and looked at Bohun. “Who was my grandmother supposed to be? A pig keeper’s daughter?”

“Caitir, one of the many illegitimate daughters of King Alexander II of Scotland.” Bohun said this with an absolutely straight face. “It is said that she was a great beauty in her time, just like your mother.”

Dafydd rubbed his chin and turned to Carew. “I can see why you didn’t tell me.”

“I apologize, my lord,” Carew said. “Please forgive me. It just seemed—”

“Preposterous,” Dafydd said. “I know.”

Bohun’s face was grave. “The Archbishop
believes
it,” he said. “You’re telling me there’s no chance that it’s true?”

A knock came at the door to the room before Dafydd could deny the claim again. Bohun pressed his lips into a thin line, but he strode to the door to open it himself. “What is it?”

“My lord—”

My father stood on the doorstep, shifting from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable. Bohun softened his expression. “Tell me.”

“We have received word that Lord Hywel, Prince of Wales, has died.”

Bohun stared at Cynan, speechless. Dafydd stepped forward, bringing me with him and I was able to look into my father’s face for the first time without balking.

“Lord Hywel is really dead?” Dafydd said.

Cynan bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

Bohun turned to us. “You knew Hywel was here for the wedding, yes?”

“We knew,” I said, and then spoke to my father. “How did he die?”

“I was told it was a sudden sickness,” Cynan said. “Prince Hywel did not wake this morning.”

“Where was he staying?” Dafydd said, without debating the man’s use of the title
Prince
. Hywel’s paternity had never been proved to King Llywelyn’s satisfaction.

“At Lambeth, as a guest of the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Bohun said. “He was to attend the dinner here tonight.”

I knew there would have to be a dinner and that I would be required to attend. All those smells—meat, vegetables, spices—caused my stomach to roil just thinking about them. But some things couldn’t be helped when one was a princess. Although a joust or a tournament was a common way to celebrate too, because this was November and the clouds to the west told me that rain was imminent, I was glad Bohun had forgone that level of display.

I still held my husband’s arm. “Do you think you ought to pay your respects? It’s not far, right? Just across the river.”

Bohun bowed slightly to me. “I’m sure the gesture would be well received.” He looked at Dafydd. “Have you ever met Valence? He is also staying at Lambeth as a guest of the Archbishop.”

“No,” Dafydd said.

“Or spoken to the Archbishop since your father signed the Treaty of 1285?” Bohun said.

Dafydd shook his head.

“Then I should come with you,” Bohun said.

“To protect me?” Dafydd said.

Bohun snorted laughter. “Not you. The realm.”

I squeezed Dafydd’s arm. “I could rest while you go.”

“Of course, my dear.” Bohun’s expression gentled. “Please allow my man to show you to your quarters.” He gestured towards my father, who still stood on the threshold. Bohun really didn’t know who he was—or who I was, for that matter.

“Lili, are you sure?” Dafydd said.

I didn’t hesitate, just stood on tiptoe as Dafydd bent so I could whisper in his ear. “I’ll have information for you by the time you return.” I even managed a smile.

My father held his arm to me. I took it, without even an overt shiver or a last glance back at Dafydd, and walked with him towards our rooms.

Cynan cleared his throat. “His lordship does not know we are kin.”

“You mean that I am your daughter?” I said, and then took in a breath to gain control of the sudden rush of temper. Ieaun had described the anger that had boiled through him at the sight of Cynan three years ago. I had felt it just then—years of suppressed rage at what he had done to us and not done for us. “You would prefer he does not know?”

“At this late date, if I told him, he would wonder that I had not mentioned it before. I have a new wife, now, and two sons. A new life.” He stopped at the door to my room and gestured that I should pass through it. “She does not know either.”

I felt cold to the core of my being. I had so dreaded this meeting, fearing his spitefulness and wrath. At the same time, I had almost been looking forward to it—to his disappointment and anger—so I could reveal my anger, too, and throw it back at him. Instead, he had spoken cordially.

And denied all connection.

Branwen appeared in the doorway to the room and, because she could sense my distress, moved close and took my hand.

I clutched it. “Goodbye, Cynan,” I said.

“Madam.” My father bowed and turned away.

I went with Branwen into the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Branwen said.

“Yes,” I said. “I think I truly am.”

Chapter Eighteen

19 November 1288

David

“
V
alence hates you with a passion I’ve rarely seen, though he hides it behind a cold veneer that has deceived the Archbishop,” Bohun said.

“Bohun is right, my lord,” Clare said as we headed back through the labyrinth that was Westminster Palace towards the main bailey. “I would also add that you’ve been in rare humor this week and your wit has become more …” Clare paused as he thought “… acid of late. We want a wedding tomorrow, not a blood bath.”

Now it was Bohun’s turn to laugh. “Our boy is growing up.”

Given that I censored ninety percent of what actually went on in my head, I thought I was doing pretty well. But I didn’t say that either, and was, in fact, somewhat offended since I endeavored not to give offense pretty much all the time. I’d diffused Bohun’s anger, hadn’t I? And found amusement in this turn of events, not anger.

I said none of this, of course, and in truth, my thoughts were back in the hallway with Lili. That she would willingly walk away with her father stunned me, but at the same time, it was just like her. She was braver than most anyone I knew, and it had nothing to do with her ability to shoot straight.

So it was, that despite Bohun’s and my own myriad obligations, not the least of which was that Bohun’s son was marrying a princess of England tomorrow, he and I rode from his castle after a brief meal in his solar, with a host of retainers and hangers-on.

Lackey
. In the modern world, it meant servile hanger-on. Here, it merely meant servant, and they were everywhere. I’d learned over the years to accept assistance, because to do otherwise would be to put whoever was serving me out of a job. Jeeves had been born the fourth son of a fisherman forty years ago. Fishing was an honest day’s work, and even though I’d accepted the help of servants since I was fourteen (when my father had claimed me as his son), it was Jeeves who’d taught me that laying out my cloak was no less honest work, even if it sometimes made me feel foolish and I could have done it myself.

But this … this was servantry on a scale I never could have imagined.

Carew rode with me as before, now joined by Bevyn, Evan and a handful of my men. Both Gilbert de Clare and Edmund Mortimer had left me at the gatehouse, declining to join us, saying that their presence could provide more of a spark than a dampener to Valence’s ire. I knew the real reason for their absence: both men despised Valence and didn’t want to have to feign respect. The feast that evening would be enough of a trial.

As it turned out, it was just as well that Edmund hadn’t joined us, as it was his brother, Roger Mortimer, who greeted us in the foyer to the Archbishop’s reception room. I’d often wondered why it was so common for noble brothers to be at each other’s throats. I would have assumed it had to do with primogeniture—the practice of leaving the entirety of an inheritance to the older son—
if
Wales had practiced it too, which it didn’t. And still Uncle Dafydd, my father’s brother, had
hated
him, to the point of betraying him with the Normans multiple times and even attempting to murder him. How could any man hate his brother that much?

Mom had pointed out that while the quest for money and power was ongoing among all the Marcher lords, it was made worse in noble families by the practice of fostering out sons to different households. If a child lived away from his family from the age of seven, could anyone be surprised that he had little fraternal loyalty or feeling? Not to mention the fact that growing up male in the Middle Ages was all about competition and one-upmanship. Edmund Mortimer had suffered because his peers—and siblings—viewed him as an inferior man because he was an intellectual. It was his bad luck that his elder brother had died, making him the heir. Roger, the younger brother, had never forgiven him for being born first.

Today Roger wore a deep red cloak over highly polished mail. The rings on his fingers reflected the lights of the torches on the wall and it made me glad that once again, Jeeves had cleaned me up before we left Baynard Castle for Westminster. I wore my breeches over my boots, instead of tucked into them like Roger, but my tunic was spotless. And my cloak was lined with fur.

I hadn’t seen Roger since we were both in King Edward’s pavilion back when I was sixteen. I had never brought up the events of that night with my newfound allies, except perhaps in vague reference to the dangers of overeating. Edmund Mortimer and Gilbert de Clare had been there, too. The only Norman who had stood up for me had been King Edward’s brother, who was dead now. None of my current allies, except for Carew, who already had been riding at my side by that point, had tried to stop the king from murdering me in cold blood.

And Bohun wondered that my wit was acid sometimes?

Still, with my newfound resolve to live more lightly, I strode up to Roger who’d been conversing with someone else dressed in equal finery but with a large paunch. Bohun hurried to keep abreast and made the introductions. “Lord Mortimer, Lord Valence,” he said, “may I introduce to you Prince David of Wales.”

“My lord.” Valence accompanied his words with a bow. Roger followed suit.

Their brief reverence left me speechless, actually. It wasn’t that I expected them to snub me, but it was certainly within the realm of possibility, given the war Valence had started and into which both men had invested so much energy and money. Bohun filled the gap in the conversation which I was inadvertently leaving. “We heard about Lord Hywel and have come to pay our respects.”

“Of course,” Valence said and indicated an adjacent corridor. “He lies this way.”

I was beginning to see the pattern in how these Norman lords spoke and gestured. I hadn’t ever seen so many of them in one place so I hadn’t noticed before.

“How did he die?” I said.

“A sudden illness,” Valence said, parroting the messenger who’d brought us the news. “The maid found him dead this morning.” Valence led us from the foyer, down a corridor to a side wing of the palace. He knocked once and then entered.

My cousin lay in state thirty feet from me, on a table before the altar of a small chapel. A thin white blanket, embroidered around the edges and folded back on itself, covered him to the waist. The other men held their position by the door, and a nudge from Carew at the small of my back had me realizing that everyone was deferring to me. They expected me to go forward to look at him.

I’d seen dead people before, of course, and I felt nothing for this long-lost cousin of mine other than regret that he’d fallen into Valence’s clutches. Still, it was disturbing to meet him for the first time as a dead man. When I reached him, I made the sign of the cross, again as everyone expected, and gazed into his face. He wore a neatly trimmed beard, like most of these Normans. His hair and skin were fair, a trait he’d inherited from his father, or so I understood. I had never met Prince Owain, who had died a few months before I came to Wales. At the same time, Hywel hadn’t achieved the height of most of the men in our family, and certainly not the six feet of me or my father.

Someone had folded his hands across his chest. His fingers were discolored on the ends, bluish, as was the tip of his nose. If Anna were here, she might have told me what disease could have caused it. As it was, after another minute, I turned away. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry that he died so young.”

“So sad.” Valence said the words through a tightened jaw.

“I would meet with the Archbishop now, if he is willing to speak with me?” I said.

Valence blinked. He should have been expecting that, but he looked as if the very idea was upsetting his stomach.

“He knows you are here and has already asked to see you,” Roger said, more smooth than his conspirator.

Sometimes I felt as if all I’d done since I’d come to England was follow other men around strange castles, but the Archbishop’s solar was next door to the chapel. As Roger had indicated, he was waiting for me, with a carafe of heated wine and two goblets on the table beside him. Like Roger, he wore a red cloak, but underneath, instead of mail, he wore a gray robe, a reminder that he was of the Franciscan order. I wondered what robes, if any, The Order of the Pendragon might wear when they met, and decided that I didn’t want to know.